That the Fire in Your Heart Is Out
by Valieara
Summary: You and me and the end of days, Morgana thinks; and Arthur shudders.


**Disclaimer: **I own nothing; for fun, not profit; etc. Title is taken from Oasis' _Wonderwall. _

**Setting/Spoilers: **Through series 3, all very general. Assumes knowledge of how the myth ends.

**Notes: **Initially not written as part of any coherent plan, these were all Morgana-themed things I couldn't put anywhere else but liked to well to discard. Particularly the last one.

* * *

Camelot is big and made of stone, and feels more like a prison than a home. Ten years old, and she's used to vistas on cliffs at the edge of the world, the clash of sea spray against sea spray and the dregs of it refracting gloriously on her face, falling infinitesimally dust-like, freckle-like, on the too-pale skin of her nose and cheeks. Now the closest she gets are the ramparts that look over the lower town and all the roads that lead away from here.

"Morgana, whatever are you doing up there?"

She's noticed that no one particularly likes it when she climbs up on these aforementioned ramparts, though it doesn't stop her doing it, and is not really surprised to discover that Uther is no exception to this generalization. He pulls her down bodily, and she has more sense than to protest as high up as they are. He's larger and stronger than her, and she's not yet grown enough to be foolish enough to think she'd emerge as victor in a struggle with him. She has no wish to fall to her death.

"I like to look," she replies.

oOo

"I'll give you a boost," he tells her, and she looks at him skeptically.

Twelve years old and old enough to wear long gowns made for the highest lady of the High Court (a new novelty after all these years), and she hates it. She just wants to climb a tree. (There's such an indefinable, insatiable need to go _up._)If she's going to be lonely, she may as well be alone.

Her new maid Guinevere is looking on worriedly in the distance, fist in her mouth. Morgana thinks she could quite come to love Gwen, with all her infallible sweetness. But now Arthur has followed her, ten years old and apparently trying out his own brand of sweetness; and in his eyes, Morgana thinks she also sees a little bit of understanding that isn't borne of pity.

She lets him give her a boost up, and even gives him a hand to help him follow her; and suddenly her chest feels lighter and her mind at peace and her soul not so alone after all.

But then he throws an apple at her and she pushes him off his branch; and in the ensuing chaos there's a matched gleam in each of their eyes that says clearly, _I could never harm you, but let's not let that stop us. _

oOo_  
_

Arthur has become quite attentive in the weeks following her 'rescue,' refraining from verbally poking at her as he always has as if he were afraid that it would physically hurt her. No matter; Morgana has no wish to put up with the annoyance or respond in kind as she once had. He is today as likely to take her arm as he was a year ago to insult her dress.

Tonight he is escorting her back to her chambers, her hand nestled into the crook of his elbow; she's slightly giddy with drink from the feast earlier that night, and he's laughing at her; and for a moment it feels like they are children again, able to take on the entire world if only they should desire it. To her horror, she feels her cheeks wet with tears, hot and slow. Something in her heart twists painfully. She had loved this boy once.

"Are you crying?" Arthur demands.

"What if I am?" she returns, rolling her eyes.

"Madwoman," he mutters after a moment of hesitation; but his other hand comes up to link his fingers through hers, and Morgana squeezes them together silently and lets herself pretend for just a moment.

oOo

"Morgana," he whispers with some trouble. "Morgana."

There's so much in her name, her name is imbued with so much, a lifetime of emotion too intense, too contradictory, too crippling to name in any other way. She understands: it feels like two halves of her are trying to rip apart at the sound of it; and she returns in kind,

"Arthur."

They don't really talk, but he rests with his head in her lap, and the boat rocks.

_You and me and the end of days, _Morgana thinks; and Arthur shudders. Her hand stills where it is brushing over his hair. He is so close to death.

But still:

"You and me," he says.

Communication.


End file.
